ViaRail loses the plot

In the end, thanks to the ineptitude of ViaRail, the brass band hired to welcome SparseRunner to the nation’s capital got pissed off and left without his even being aware it had been scheduled. Due to arrive at 18:37, the band was there, parading around the crowded station in their velvet livery, when it was interrupted by the noisy and trenchant station announcer: “Train No. 34, scheduled to arrive at Platform 5 at 18:37 will now arrive at 19:10.”
 
As the trombonist glissandoed to a stop, producing the womp womp womp we all love so, there was another announcement: “Train No. 34, scheduled to arrive at Platform 5 at 18:37 will now arrive at 19:09.” The band started to play again. But then, two minutes later, the announcement came that the train would be in at 19:17. Then again, ninety seconds later, at 19:04. Every announcement was, of course, bilingual. “Le train en provenance de Montréal qui devait arriver à 18 heures 37 ne rentrera en gare qu’à 19 heures 09.” Back and forth the announcement went, offering up times between 19:02 and 21:15. What on earth was happening to the train bringing our esteemed guest from the distant shores of Quebec?
 
At this stage, the band very wisely packed up, leaving Ottawacker Jr. and I almost alone in the cavernous station, to await SparseRunner. When he finally bounded up the stairs at 19:23, he must have been somewhat disappointed to find only Ottawacker Jr. and I waiting for him, but good sport that he is, he didn’t show it at all. In fact, he was the epitome of good humour despite only having the prospect of my cooking, endless conversations about plane liveries, and good-natured joshing about his predilection for appalling football teams to look forward to.
 
We drove back into our neck of the woods, me offering him the collection of pitiful tourist leaflets the station had on offer (the Museum of Nature; Winterlude; How to Tell If Your Child Had Had a Cannabis Overdose; Parc Oméga) and wondering what he’d make of the Nation’s Capital™ in the middle of construction season.
 
Beer had to be the solution. So, we went to O’Brien’s and split nachos, wings and pizza, along with a pint or two, and then went home. A lovely evening, a gracious guest, and someone on whom to pawn off my appalling Canadian whisky.